
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



p 5;zSfa 7 

Cliap.}__^. Copyright No...„. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



WITH THE SEASONS 



WITH 
THE SEASONS 



MARY AUGUSTA MASON 



NEW YORK 

A. D. F. RANDOLPH COMPANY 

1897 
K, 




Tm COPIES RECEIVED 



1^5 






.V^ 



Copyright, 1897, by 
A. D. F. Randolph Company 



Press of 

E.O. Jenkins' Son 
New York 



TO 
BESSIE VIRGINIA DICKINSON, 

MY DEAR COMPANION LOVER OF THE WOOD AND 

FIELD, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS 

TENDERLY INSCRIBED 



One comes with violets in her hands. 
And 07ie with roses all a-blow^ 

With golden sheaves another stands^ 
The last brings as her gift — the snow. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FLORENCE IN SPRINGTIME I 

AM I READY . 3 

THE LAST SNOWFALL 5 

HAD I WINGS 6 

'TIS APRIL 7 

IN SPRINGTIME 8 

AN EMPTY NEST lO 

WHEN FRESH BUDS ARE UPON THE BOUGHS ... II 

A NEW EARTH 13 

APRIL'S LADY I4 

SINCE LAST I HEARD HIS SONG 16 

MAY 17 

DANDELION CURRENCY IQ 

A FLOWER WITH A SOUL 20 

LOVE CALL OF THE CHICKADEE 22 

SING, MY LADY, SING 24 

TO THE WINDS OF JUNE 26 

HIGH-TIDE 27 

THE HONEY-MOON 28 

I THE LOVE OF NATURE 30 

LADY JUNE 31 

*-^THE SCARLET TANAGER 3^ 

IN SUMMER 34 

COBWEBS ? . 35 



X CONTENTS 

TO DEPARTED JUNE 37 

RED CLOVER 4° 

REPOSE 43 

i.^-^O SWEET, SWEET WORLD 44 

THE RAIN-DOVE 45 

THE PASSING OF SUMMER 47 

SEPTEMBER TWILIGHT 48 

MOONLIGHT IN THE AUTUMN WOOD 49 

WINGS AND FLIGHTS 5° 

IN OCTOBER SI 

AN AUTUMN MORNING 53 

AFTER THE BALL 55 

A NOVEMBER EVENING 57 

A BELATED BLOSSOM 58 

A PURSUIT 59 

THE SEASON OF SILENCE , . . . . 60 

A COMPARISON 61 

WINTER 62 

IN THE MORNING 63 

THE PATIENT SEASONS 65 

ITALIAN WINTER 66 

WITH THE SEASONS 68 

IF LOVE WERE LIFE ^0 

AFTER THE PLAY 7^ 

MOONRISE 72 

LIFE 73 

TO LOVE 74 

SLUMBER SONG 7^ 

MY MOTHER 78 

THE SUSQUEHANNA 80 



CONTENTS xi 

I LOVE YOU 8l 

IMMORTAL 82 

IN THE HOME COUNTRY 84 

STARS IN THE WELL 86 

PROMISES 88 

A LOVE SONG 89 

THREE MINISTERING ANGELS 91 

BEAUTY 92 

THE COUNTRY OF FARAWAY 94 

VENICE 95 

ON THE HEIGHTS 97 

INFLUENCE 98 

OF LOVEj 1 99 

MORNING 100 

ONLY THE FEW lOI 

MY LITTLE LADY 102 

BELLS RING NEVER TWICE THE SAME 103 

THE MOTHER-POET 105 

HUMAN NATURE IO7 

MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR I08 

ON THE MOUNTAIN HO 




(^^ 



FLORENCE IN SPRINGTIME 




HO would not Galileo be 

In springtime, when the almond 

tree 
Is fluttering its pink snowflakes 
down, 
Inviting banishment from town ? 
I'd gladly seize my globe and chart 
And for those hills of Florence start, 
Did any Inquisition see 
That banishment were best for me ! 
The Medici, asleep below, 
Would not be more at home, I know. 
No *' star tower " would confine me there ; 
Out in the soft Italian air 
I should discover at my feet 
Small worlds that make the large one sweet ; 
Through glowing fields I'd lead the bees 
In search of fragrant Pleiades; 



FLORENCE IN SPRINGTIME 



Each Stone would testify anew 
Of lambs the little Giotto drew ; 
Each path would lead to some calm height 
That keeps the Arno still in sight. 
And if, forgetting it was day, 
The nightingale should start his lay, 
And mocking-bird sing east and west 
To lead me further from his nest, — 
Among those hills where magic Spring 
Experiments with leaf and wing, 
Where dews from bluest skies fall free 
On freshly opened worlds for me, — 
Who would not Galileo be ! 



AM I READY 



AM I READY 



M I ready, am I ready for the Spring ? 
Who have no buds to bloom, no 

songs to sing, 
No answer, should I hear a silvery 
call, 
But just a great warm loving for it all. 




How fresh the picture in the hill-set frame ; 
Untravelworn the songsters when they came ; 
The south winds kind as though they had not 

blown 
With blasting fury from a frozen zone. 



How quickly are the winters all forgot 
At sight of one small, shy forget-me-not ! 
How many springs that bird on yonder tree 
Can sing back to the hearts of you and me ! 



AM I READY 



I wonder if the robin knows how sweet 
That little tuft of violets at his feet, 
Or if those winsome blossoms are aware 
Of all that rapture borne upon the air. 

Such alchemy in spring's prismatic rain, 
That all the fields are young and glad again ; 
Each flower its old-time pattern loves to use, 
The bee no longer hunts, but has to choose. 

Dear bluebird sky and song-enchanted air ! 
Dear minstrel brooks that wander everywhere ! 
Dear earth to keep such sweet things in your 

heart 
And never let a bud too early start ! 

Dear every sight and every sound I hear, 
That makes the earth so glad a place each 

year; 
One's soul goes out in eager questioning, 
O am I ready, ready for the Spring ? 



THE LAST SNOWFALL 




THE LAST SNOWFALL 

HERE'S been a snowfall of forget- 
me-nots, 
For yonder hills are white this 
morn T see ; 
It drifted down last night mysteriously, 
And melted everywhere save in these spots. 
The fleecy clouds looked conscious of such 
plots, 
And when the south winds came along so 

free 
And shook the buds awake upon the tree. 
And in a frolic whisked across the lots, 
We straightway were prepared to see new 
sights 
And hear new sounds when morn broke on 
our ken ; 
For who can but accept when Spring invites? 

Ah, surely not the bluebird and the wren; 
The air is filled with twitters and soft flights, 
And, lo, the dew is on the grass again : 



HAD I WINGS 



HAD I WINGS 



^^^^HERE it springtime and had I the 

||p|P^^ Of wings to go whither I would, 
Not a moment of time Fd be los- 
ing 
In making my choice understood. 

I love them all — phoebe and bluebird, 
Song-sparrow and robin red-breast ; 

But there's one golden-belted wee fellow 
I envy above all the rest. 

He does little wooing in public, 
He spends little time in the tree ; 

But he finds the first bank of arbutus, 
So I'll beg for the wings of the bee. 



TIS APRIL 



'TIS APRIL 

HERE'S a thrush in the thicket, 'tis 
April I know — 
There are signs of her presence 
wherever I go ; 
There's gold on the willows and blue in the 

sky, 
And pink where the snowdrifts of arbutus lie ; 
There's red on the maples and color to spare — 
Each bud is awake and awaiting its share. 
The butterflies know it is time for their wings, 
Through the mists there are hints of invisible 

things. 
And on through the meadows and over the 

hill 
Sweet April is calling her followers still ; 
Her footprints are violets, her breath is the 

air. 
And her speech is the singing of birds every- 
where. 



IN SPRINGTIME 



IN SPRINGTIME 

l^^^^pHE air is blue with the bluebird 

|g^^. And sweet with the bluebird 

calls, 
The trees are the bluebird palaces, 
And the earth their vernal halls. 



An incense hangs over shrub and tree, 
And the blue eyes in the grass 

Look up in violet surprise 
To see the white clouds pass. 



The golden disks of the dandelions 

Send out their flower rays, 
And the daffodils, with their dainty frills, 

Spring up in the garden ways. 



IN SPRINGTIME 



The clannish innocence blooms white 

Upon the peaceful hills ; 
A butterfly has found its wings 

And flutters where it wills. 



And the brook that ceased last year to flov^ 

And never a word has said, 
Once more starts out on its stony way, 

By sweet remembrance led. 

And something rare, with a red, red breast, 

Is building a nest outside, 
And I hear a song that I heard last year, 

Ere the flowers drooped and died — 

A song that only a bird can sing, 

A song of a robin, too, 
A song of hope, a song of Spring, 

A song he has kept for you. 



lO AN EMPTY NEST 



AN EMPTY NEST 



HEN Spring comes to seek her own 
Do they all rise at her words ? 
Is the little fledgeling's tone 
Sweet as was the parent bird's ? 
When once more the streamlets roam 
Do the robins all come home ? 

Here's a nest upon a bough, 

But there comes no bird to claim ; 

Has she made a new nest now ? 
If from some far land we came 

We should all the home nest know, 

Even were it filled with snow. 

There are blue eyes that we miss 

In the flush of violet time ; 
In a world so sweet as this 

Still are bells that do not chime ; 
In the heart are many spots 
Sacred to forget-me-nots. 



WHEN FRESH BUDS ARE UPON THE BOUGHS II 



WHEN FRESH BUDS ARE UPON 
THE BOUGHS 



F all the days I love most these, 
When fresh buds are upon the 

boughs, 
When happy builders haunt the 
trees 
And earth is tuneful with their vows. 



Deep in the woods my way I take 
To see how some shy woodlings fare. 

Though all the gladdening meadows make 
Sweet overtures to keep me there. 

Titania's fairy following 

Finds shadow here but never gloom ; 
The last brown leaf takes gladly wing 

To give the new year's children room. 



2 WHEN FRESH BUDS ARE UPON THE BOUGHS 

Here lichen goblets lift for dew, 
And ferns uncurl and petals ope, 

And where a bit of sky peeps through 
The blue hepatica takes hope. 

The bugler thrush, at sunset's flood, 
His silvery changes over rings, 

And to this crown of greening wood 
Is faithful as returning springs. 

Here speech is bloom and speech is song ; 

And when Diana's bow is bent 
In evening skies, a merry throng 

Holds fete within the leafy tent. 

The stars and moon look through the trees 
But learn no secrets of the wood — 

The birds and fairies hold the keys 

And keep their tryst with Robin Hood. 



A NEW EARTH 




A NEW EARTH 

[OME mystic hand unlocks the icy- 
gates ; 
Once more through happy fields 
the blue veins run, 
While with expectant hearts come one by 
one 
The robins to make ready for their mates ; 
A momentary hush, as Spring awaits 
A further signal from the watchful sun, 
And from the old a new earth is begun. 
A memory in each flower again creates 
A likeness of itself. The same sweet thrill 

Stirs in each bird-breast the desire to sing; 
And heaven once more the cup of earth to fill 

Bends lightly over with unwearied wing ; 
In shining companies by rock and rill 
Rise up the lovely followers of the Spring. 



14 APRIL'S LADY 



APRIL'S LADY 

N her blue eyes' misty depths 

Saw I something more than she 
Would allow, and cloudy lids 
Shut the blue skies then from 

me. 

But a warm desire to look 

Into longing eyes upturned, 
Parts the clouds, and there I see 

That for which my soul has yearned. 

Forth with hesitating step 
Comes this gentle lady fair, — 

All the world her lover is, 

Yet to claim her none would dare. 

Smiles she on them all alike, 

Giveth each to her his best ; 
Happy lady ! happy world ! 

Love returned with interest. 



APRIL'S LADY 15 



This is she, the Spring's first love, 
With the tender flower face, 

Coming out of troubled skies. 
Coming to a troubled place, — 



With the violets in her eyes, 
The arbutus on her breast ; 

First of all thy lovely train, 
April's lady, thou art best ! 



l6 SINCE LAST I HEARD HIS SONG 



SINCE LAST I HEARD HIS SONG 

HERE has he been since last I 
heard his song, 
The long and dreary winter 
months between ? 
A month of bird-life many years must mean, 
So sweet each hour on light wings borne 

along. 
Now, standing forth from all the happy throng 
That rise from earth and from the heavens 

lean, 
My red-breast of past years again is seen ; 
And in and out between the rafters strong 
Short flights of wing the busy builder takes, 

Did some one learn to love him as I do. 

In those long absences the winter makes ? 

And does she keep for him her young heart 

true 

Until the Spring for her again awakes ? — 

Then lover of my bird, love I thee too ! 



MAY 17 



MAY 

^^^pl HEAD full, a heart full, a soul full 

l li^l^^l Can one have too much of it? 

Never, I say. 
To think of its being around the whole sphere, 
And still enough left for a sample next year. 

One longs to have wings to keep up with the 

train 
That flushes the mountain and dapples the 

plain ; 
In primrose-laned England, where twilights 

are long 
And the nightingale holds his sweet sessions 

of song ; 
In Dante's land, too, by that old Southern sea 
Where Spring first was conscious how fair she 

could be : 



15 MAY 

And on to Japan, where the spiced breezes 

lift 
The cherry-tree blooms in a frolicsome drift. 
Anywhere, everywhere, out 'neath the blue, 
We may in a vision see all things made new ; 
Where'er fancy leads us the charm is the same, 
And the East and the West might be called 

by one name. 



DANDELION CURRENCY 19 



DANDELION CURRENCY 



^^^SHAT care I for paper or silver, 
%:^^: When I can have plenty of gold, 

?^^Wi3r And draw from each bank in the 

springtime 
More wealth than my coffers can hold ! 

All ye who have taste for the meadows, 
Why stay in the turbulent towns ? 

Here are riches and comfort in plenty — 
A mint overflowing with crowns ! 

They are current the selfish world over, 
And none need be poor any more ; 

I'm so rich that I leave the gold blossoms 
To tarnish and fade at my door. 

Earth is ready for all her partakers, 
Each cell with its honey is filled ; 

Here are the gold streets, and the mansions 
Are waiting for some one to build. 



20 A FLOWER WITH A SOUL 



A FLOWER WITH A SOUL 

HVERY springtime forth I go 

Searching for this spirit-flower 
For who knows but it may grow, 
After some inviting shower, 
With the blossoms by the stream, 
Just to see how earth would seem ? 

No one yet has ever found 

Such a flower, I am told ; 
But if thus the frozen ground 

Lives of violets can hold 
And the frail anemones, — 
It might harbor one of these. 

Will it blossom white or blue ? 

Will it meek and modest grow ? 
Or, with perfume that is new. 

Like a stately lily blow ? 
Will it bear some sacred name 
Of the land from whence it came ? 



A FLOWER WITH A SOUL 



Loving quiet ways the best, 

Answering some plaintive word, 

It may grow beside the nest 
Of a shy, brown mother-bird, — 

And the little birds below 

Be the only ones to know. 



22 



LOVE CALL OF THE CHICKADEE 



LOVE CALL OF THE CHICKADEE 



F I had two wings and a song and 
feather 
I should certainly fly away 
To him, when he calls in the soft 
spring weather 
His sweet ** Come play !" " Come play !" 




Just as soon as the brook goes rushing 
Down the glen like a restless fay, 

Out from his heart the song comes gushing 
To all '' This way !" " This way !" 



He knows quite well when the buds are swell- 
ing, 

And when the robin has come to stay, 
And all good news he is first in telling 

With his ''To-day!" "To-day!" 



LOVE CALL OF THE CHICKADEE 2 

He gave a hint of the glad times coming 
While yet the snows on the hillside lay ; 

Now birds go wooing and bees go humming, 
He sings, "In May!" *'lnMay!" 



24 SING, MY LADY, SING 




SING, MY LADY, SING 

ING, my lady, sing! 

Life is sweet in spring — 
Wooing's in the very air, 
Love for all and some to spare, 

Sing, my lady, sing ! 



Sing, my lady, sing ! 

Love is on the wing ; 

He will pause a moment here 
In the first flush of the year. 

Sing, my lady, sing ! 

Sing, my lady, sing ! 

Time will trouble bring ; 

Love is young and constant now. 
He will keep awhile his vow, 

Sing, my lady, sing ! 



SING, MY LADY, SING 2$ 



Sing, my lady, sing ! 
Youth is everything — 

Love and hope and joy and song ; 

Sing, for youth will not stay long, 



Sing, my lady, sing ! 



26 TO THE WINDS OF JUNE 



TO THE WINDS OF JUNE 



LOW gently, Winds of June ! Each 
downy nest 
Is full of unsung songs and un- 
spread wings 
That will respond to patient hoverings ; 
Soft rockings suit the rustic cradles best. 

Blow gently, Winds of June ! The bud is 
here 
That soon will be transformed into the 

rose, 
The sweetest miracle that nature knows ; 
A breath might mar the beauty of the year. 

So easily the song drops out of tune, 
So eagerly the sun absorbs the dews, 
So quickly does the rose its petals lose. 

That, for their sakes, blow gently, Winds of 
June ! 



HIGH-TIDE 27 



HIGH-TIDE 

p^^^^plHE high-tide of the year has come 

^^^^Hl From their mysterious deeps the 
waves of white 
And pink and green are breaking on our 
sight ; 
The airy cloud-ships slowly sailing past, 
Light shadows on the shimmering orchards 
cast; 
With fragrant overtures the trees invite 
Robin and oriole to stay their flight — 
Amid the leaves their homes to anchor fast. 

Then comes the full, delicious rise and fall 
Of night and morn ; and dreamy twilights 
fill 

The soul like sweet responses to a call ; 

Where once were roses there are roses still ; 

The earth must pattern after her old ways 

As long as there are Junes and summer days. 



THE HONEY-MOON 



THE HONEY-MOON 

HEN the clover's in its prime, 
Then's the sweetest marriage- 
time. 

They the longest honey-moon 
Have who marry now in June, 
When the earth's been wooed and won, 
And the summer's just begun ; 
When the daylight loves to stay. 
And steals half the night away ; 
And the moonbeams shine so deep 
That there seems no time for sleep ; 
When the air throbs with the gush 
Of the silver-throated thrush, 
And the soil has felt the thrill 
And bursts into bloom at will, 
Imitating every shade 
That the skies have ever made ; 
When the perfume, songs and light, 
Earth's fulfillment of her plight, 



THE HONEY-MOON 29 

Steal into the human heart, 
Making all the love-chords start 
Into harmonies so sweet 
That there seemeth no retreat 
But to sing and blossom, too, 
Just as birds and flowers do. 



30 



THE LOVE OF NATURE 



THE LOVE OF NATURE 




OW generous Nature, is to those 

who show 

A sympathy with her! How 

every breeze 

Seems a caress ! How all the shrubs and trees 

Put on their tenderest green, and flowers 

blow, 
And even birds and insects seem to know 
Your heart and strive, each in its way, to 

please ! 
The birds build at your door, the honey-bees 
Are sure of finding sweets where'er you go — 
Since every rose will blossom at its best 

For those who have the rose's love within. 
The heart that blesses others will be blest ; 
The lives that look for blossoms, blossoms 
win ; . 
The love of birds will build a song-bird's nest 
Upon a bough where winter snows have 
been. 



LADY JUNE 



LADY JUNE 




ADY of the sky and sea, 
Lady of the wood and lea — 
Lady June. 



See her springing from the grass ! 

See her smiling from the sky ! 
Watch her back and forward pass 

As the little winds go by ! 
Hear her singing in the wood! — 

*Tis a lady — not a thrush ; 
Who else with such sweetness could 

Crown a prickly rose's bush ? 



It is Lady June, my dear; 
All the little birds we hear 

Sing her praises, Lady June ; — 
Careful where each foot is set, 
It can feel^ the mignonette. 

And take flight, the Lady June. 



32 THE SCARLET TANAGER 



THE SCARLET TANAGER 

^^^1 FLAME went flitting through the 
^^^^ wood ; 

^H^gll The neighboring birds all under- 
stood 

Here was a marvel of their kind ; 
And silent was each feathered throat 
To catch the brilliant stranger's note, 
And folded every songster's wing 
To hide its sober coloring. 

Against the tender green outlined, 
He bore himself with splendid ease. 
As though alone among the trees. 
The glory passed from bough to bough— 
The maple was in blossom now, 
And then the oak, remembering 
The crimson hint it gave in spring, 
And every tree its branches swayed 
And offered its inviting shade ; 



THE SCARLET TANAGER 33 

Where'er a bough detained him long, 
A slender, silver thread of song 
Was lightly, merrily unspun. 
From early morn till day was done 

The vision flitted to and fro. 
At last the wood was all alone ; 
But, ere the restless flame had flown, 
He left a secret with each bough, 
And in the Fall, where one is now, 

A thousand tanagers will glow. 



34 IN SUMMER 



IN SUMMER 

HAT can one do in summer when 

the world 
Has all her banners of delight un- 
furled, 
When pleasure beckons us a thousand ways, 
Or folds her wings and close beside us stays? 
Afar and near is something rare and sweet ; 
Upon the grass the print of Beauty's feet ; 
At every turn a picture ; some glad notes 
Sung first for us from newly conscious throats ; 
A glory in the sunshine ; by the streams 
Soft cadences invite and blend with dreams ; 
Out in the fields the honey-hunters go ; 
Over the heights the merry breezes blow ; 
Up in the sky some mystic signs are set — 
The earth has never failed to read them yet ; 
And as the year rejoices in her prime, 
The happiest thing to do in summertime 
Is on some mossy bank content to lie 
And watch the changes in the earth and sky. 



COBWEBS 



35 




COBWEBS 

WONDER if you 

Can tell me who 

Stole down last night through the 

dark and dew, 
And wove such queer 
Little patterns here, 
And fastened them firm to each grassy spear. 

And here and there 

On the fences bare, 
These filmy laces are wrought with care ; 

Strung with diamond dew 

Every morning new, 
They sparkle and gleam as the sun looks 
through. 



Is each silken net 
For some fairy set, 
Who stayed too late at the moonlight fete ? 



36 COBWEBS 



And caught within 
For his elfin sin, 
Must he weave each delicate web again ? 

Could we see aright, 

Every moonlight night 
Are the fairy looms and hands in sight ; 

When the East is rose, 

Every fairy knows 
That his task is done and he homeward goes. 



TO DEPARTED JUNE 37 




TO DEPARTED JUNE 

OT hours enough in all those pleas- 
ant days 
To give expression to the joy you 
felt; 
Like some rare spirit in our world you dwelt, 
Then like a spirit sought some happier ways. 

A few fair roses, lying on your breast, 

Still bloom in sweet remembrance of that 

time 
When roses and the year were in their prime; 

And still the sun sinks late into the West. 

The summer lilies, too, are now in bloom, 
But they are pale and bowed with secret woe 
For some glad time they came too late to 
know ; 

Thus even in the sunshine there is gloom. 



38 TO DEPARTED JUNE 

The birds have flown their nests, they quickly 
learn 
To soar, and yet I doubt if flying brings 
The peace they felt beneath their mother's 
wings ; 
You would not know your own should you 
return. 

The hills fade in a quiet mist away, — 

Who knows but you, dear June, still linger 

there 
In answer to some faithful lover's prayer, 

And seem through pity half inclined to stay. 

The moon has made her weary round once 
more. 
And sends weird shadows through the woods 

to learn 
If you are hiding there, but leaf and fern 
Breathe only of a blessing gone before. 

The river takes a slower, calmer pace, 

The brook has lost its happy, buoyant bound, 



TO DEPARTED JUNE 39 

Less sweetness seems to thrill through every 
sound, 
And some rare light is missed from every place. 

Without are all things changed, within the soul 
Are changes, too, that have been wrought by 

June ; 
We've listened to a strain of perfect tune. 

And now our spirits long to hear the whole ! 




40 RED CLOVER 



RED CLOVER 

OU are the pride of the meadow, red 
clover ! 
Where you are blooming there 
surely old Rover 
Knows the slow kine always wait to be 
driven; 
This morning they meekly passed out 

through the gate, 
This evening both they and old Rover are 
late- 
Red clover, just see all the trouble you've 
given ! 

Was it some friend you were harboring under 
Your clustering leaves, that just trebled its 
wonder 
To see you fold up your green leaves with- 
out warning, 



RED CLOVER 4 1 



And bow your sweet blossom-face down 

out of sight, 
Lest the dew catch the red from your 

cheeks in the night, 
And the sun be displeased when he comes 

in the morning ? 

The honey bees say you are close with your 

honey ; 
They can't get a drop, and what seems very 
funny 
The bumblebee, with his long nose, can get 
plenty ; 
So he bumbles around, like a great clumsy 

elf, 
All the red clover honey he has to himself, — 
Just now, buzzing by with his load of sweets 
went he. 



But here come the cows and old Rover ! — be- 
hind him 

The boy who was sent to the pasture to find 
him. 



42 RED CLOVER 



Good-night to the pasture, and to you, red 

clover; 

'Tis time for us all to be wandering home, 

The time of the twilight and starlight has 

come, 

And the time for the bees to get honey is over. 



REPOSE 43 



REPOSE 



HE clouds have thrown long golden 
anchors out 
To reach the fastnesses among the 
hills 
That purple rise and hem the blue sea in ; 
Upon its azure tablets has the sun 
Writ his last message. Birds forget their 

quest, 
And hearts their trouble ; flowers cease to 

fade ; 
Fear has been lost and the keen sense of hope 
Been dulled a little through what promises 
To be the eve of a fulfillment sweet ; 
Sleep draws the curtains of that other land, 
Then works a charm to blind the vision there ; 
While, like a ghost of the departed sun, 
The moon steals spirit-like upon the world, 
And just as silently the azure sea 
To silver turns, and the tired earth forgets 
It ever was, or it must be again. 



44 O SWEET, SWEET WORLD 



O SWEET, SWEET WORLD 



sweet, sweet world, were I a bee, 
And such delights were offered me, 
From morn till eve I'd spread my 
wings 

And hover o'er the fragrant things, 
And never miss a single bloom, 
But carry homeward in the gloom 
My load of sweets and hoard it so 
My golden cells would overflow ! 

Each cup should bear a magic name 
To tell me whence the honey came ! 
"Arbutus," '^ clover," ''violet," 
" Azalea," " pink," and " mignonette "— 
And other flowers we love to see 
And that are sweet to man and bee ; 
When winter comes at home I then 
Would live the summer o'er again. 



THE RAIN-DOVE 45 



THE RAIN-DOVE 

HEN the clouds have gathered deep 
O'er the languid summer sky, 
And the breeze has gone to sleep, 
To be wakened by and by ; 
From the wood I hear the call 

Of the rain-dove, as from some 
Spirit that has lost its all 
And with grief is overcome. 



And the weird, unbirdlike notes, 

Heard at lonely times and long, 
Seem to still the other throats 

That have throbbed with happy song ;- 
Never call to brooding mate. 

Silent all the wood as though 
Bluebird, thrush, and robin's fate 

Hung upon the rain-dove's woe. 



46 THE RAIN-DOVE 

But the kindly clouds at last 

Break the tension of the hush, 
Through the drops now falling fast 

Comes the music of the thrush ; 
And the bluebird's heard again 

Singing at his sweetheart's door, 
And the robin's joyful strain, 

For the rain-dove mourns no more. 



THE PASSING OF SUMMER 47 



THE PASSING OF SUMMER 



HE Summer leads her children on ; 
The violet has dropped behind, 
But still the way with bloom is 
lined ; 



A chill, mysterious flower at dawn 
Gleams white a moment on the lawn. 

The Summer leads her children on ; 
The little household on yon bough 
Has lived and loved and gone, and now 
I see a leaf about the nest 
Shine red like evening in the West. 

The Summer leads her children on, 
And other sunny vales make room ; 
The little bud that did not bloom, 
The little bird that did not sing, 
Will never miss its flower or wing. 



48 SEPTEMBER TWILIGHT 



SEPTExMBER TWILIGHT 

fj ^Mj p kM qlHE sun has set his golden seal 
:^^^ppii^; Upon the world he left behind, 

ij^gl^^ But up the eastern mountains steal 
The shadows he forgot to bind. 

The little birds fly to their homes ; 

The flowers forget the hues they wore ; 
A loitering cricket forward comes 

And chants his mournful measure o'er. 

A murmur where the river ran ; 

A whispering among the leaves 
Of some misfortune to their clan 

And a mistrust of autumn eves. 

A sudden sense of secret things, 
Of something brooding in the air ; 

A slow withdrawing — as of wings — 
Some guardian angel called elsewhere ! 



MOONLIGHT IN THE AUTUMN WOOD 49 



MOONLIGHT IN THE AUTUMN 
WOOD 



T seems as if some spirit that I 
knew 
Called me by name, and gently 
led me where 
The still winds sleep and blessed moon- 
beams are ; 
The trees have lost their gaudy noonday hue, 
And stand like spirit trees all bathed in dew 
Of moonlit heaven ; while soft above me 

there 
A bird calls in its dreams, as though aware 
Of some sweet spell the night around it threw. 

The perfume that some hidden flower sets 
free. 
The shadowy pictures in the path before; 
The falling of a nut from yonder tree, 
The rustling of strange things I cannot see. 
Make me forget the face that daylight wore, 
And love the tender moonlight fancies more. 



50 WINGS AND FLIGHTS 



WINGS AND FLIGHTS 

^^^^PIHAT rare estates, what goodly store 
^%^^i Of garnered sheaves the summer 
Wf^^l bore, 

By courtesy preside we o'ei' ! 
What woodland beds of unnamed flowers, 
What gold, that mines itself, is ours ! 
To tempt the soul, what depths of blue 
That let such tender shinings through! 

What days for airy voyaging ! 
Now every leaf would be a wing. 
Would follow — though it may not sing — 
To some fair land where Summer goes 
To cherish her immortal rose 
And keep her singing birds in tune 
Until she hears the summons — June ! 



IN OCTOBER 




IN OCTOBER 

WONDER will thev find it sweet 
as we 
Shall Paradise ? — these shy young 
birds that now 
For the first time have put to test their wings, 
And flown beyond the silent nesting-tree, 
Beyond the skies that sheltered them in June, 
To a far land which they have never seen ? 



What faith, what matchless wisdom they have 

shown ! 
How could they know that Winter follows 

close 
Upon such radiant days and nights as these ? 
In what sweet dream was it revealed to them 
That they by simply trusting to their wings 
Might follow the dear Summer on her way ? 



52 IN OCTOBER 



The beckoning branches now sway back and 

forth 
In vain to tempt the restless wings to stay ; 
The falling leaves pave all the earth with 

gold, 
But they are not deceived — these Summer 

friends ; 
Their hearts have grown so strong with con- 
fidence 
Born of some inward sight we cannot know, 
That all the gracious overtures of earth 
At this rare season cannot stay their flight. 
By day I see the wings, by night I hear 
Soft twitters in the air, and know they still 
Are on their way ; my bluebird that I loved 
And that I saw grow full of life and song 
In this forsaken tree before my door. 
My robin with the newly painted breast — 
They, too, have joined the winged caravan, 
And think no more of me. 



AN AUTUMN MORNING 53 



AN AUTUMN MORNING 

HE dark dream curtains of the 
night have silently been 
drawn, 

And out upon our vision steps the 
lady of the dawn, 
Once more she outlines through the gloom 

where hills and valleys are — 
While rosy lights steal up the sky and pale 
each lingering star. 

Already shine the signal fires upon each 

mountain crest, 
Already some new sense is stirred within each 

waking breast ; 
The sunrise miracle is wrought, yet is it quite 

the same 
World that lay but yesterday beneath his 

golden flame ? 



54 AN AUTUMN MORNING 

Some other light than sunshine has touched 

each shrub and tree, 
Was it a dream they had of heaven or of a 

heaven to be ? 



The earth is all aglow with fires that burn but 

not consume, 
In one long, fragrant breath the flowers 

breathe out their last perfume ; 
The shy young birds that have not flown sing 

soft their first love tune — 
I doubt if it will be more sweet when they 

come back in June. 
The cricket sentinels tick out the hour with 

noisy wing, 
Comes forth to greet the morn with praise 

each happy, trustful thing. 
It is the sunset of the year that knows no east 

or west, 
O hillsides warm and tender ! O valleys 

color-blest ! 



AFTER THE BALL 



55 




AFTER THE BALL 

|HE frost has turned low all the 
lights on the lawn, 
The halls are deserted by dryad 
and faun ; 
The orchestra's ceased and the singers have 

flown, 
A cricket tunes forth a brave note all alone ; 
The trees are dismantled, their hangings laid 

low 
Where the feet of the dancers tripped light to 

and fro ; 
Cinderella was here, for her slipper I find, 
But the coach that she came in is wrecked by 

the wind ; 
And here is the pipe that was played on by 

Pan, 
Yet no one can tell where the shy fellow ran; 
A shawl of fine cobweb a spider has spun 
Still hangs in the loom where the weaving was 

done ; 



56 AFTER THE BALL 

A butterfly fan and a jewel of dew 

Were dropped by a guest when the banquet 

was through ; 
The perfume of some lovely blossom now 

dead 
Is over the scene like a memory shed, 
And only the blue arch remains over all 
As fair as it was on the eve of the ball. 



A NOVEMBER EVENING 57 



A NOVEMBER EVENING 

HE last bird wings across the sky, 
The sunset clouds in crimson die, 
The daisy bows her saintly head, 
The skies drop incense o'er the 
dead, 
The moon comes forth with light con- 
strained ; 
As low the breeze a requiem sings, 
The sculptor Frost his chisel brings 
And shapes the dewdrops into stones — 
White monuments to mark the thrones 
Where late the gentle flowers reigned. 



58 A BELATED BLOSSOM 



A BELATED BLOSSOM 
pi^^^l FAIR, sweet blossom, latest of its 

H^Sp^^ To bloom, unfolded in the au- 
tumn air, 
And laid its timid bud and being bare ; 
Then shed a dewdrop tear, as if it pined 
For its companions the unfeeling wind 

Had blighted and left shivering, scentless 

there. 
Thus naught but desolation was its share, 
For autumn is not June, even flowers find. 

Alas for souls and flowers that bloom too late 
And find but ruins of a tenderer time ! 

To live with others were a happier fate ; 
To die with summer were a death sublime. 

O Autumn, just one summer day give back, 

That this frail thing may die and feel no lack I 



A PURSUIT 59 



A PURSUIT 

CAUGHT the sound of tripping 

feet, 
And followed after, down the 

street ; 
The tantalizing footfalls drew 
Me on and on, till naught I knew 
But that I must make good the chase, 
And turn about that fleeing face. 
The leaves dropped slowly as I passed ; 
I felt a sudden icy blast, 
And heard the footfalls, then, no more. 
The way she went soon drifted o'er ; 
And what to show that she was here. 
Except these oak leaves brown and sere 
And yonder empty nest, — and these 
Are dead, and secret as the breeze, 
And only silent witness bear, — 
While she was all alive and fair? 




6o THE SEASON OF SILENCE 



THE SEASON OF SILENCE 

OW comes the hush that follows 
after song ; 
In one wild burst the melody 
went out 
From all the glowing woods and fields 
about, 
And coldly shines the sun the whole day 
long. 

The South wind doth inspire the earth no 
more ; 
The glad, responsive voices now are dumb ; 
And if, as guest, a summer day should 
come. 
No smiling band would open wide the door. 

What matter if the sun shines or the moon ? 

What matter if the dewdrops turn to snow? 

The robin and the bluebird v/ill not know, 
And the arbutus never wakes too soon. 



A COMPARISON 6l 




A COMPARISON 

NOWFLAKES, snowflakes, what 
are you 
When compared with drops of 
dew ! 
Never once did you repose 
In the heart of a June rose ; 
Never found a place of rest 
In a robin's new-made nest, 
Nor held sunbeams in your breast ; 
Never drawn at midnight hour 
By the perfume of some flower ; 
Never in a lichen cup 
Graced the board where fairies sup ; 
Nor on cobweb hung a gem, 
Nor refreshed a bruised stem-; 
Never in response to prayer 
Did you drift adown the air, 
Blessing blossom, bud and spear 
With a sympathetic tear. 
Snowflakes, snowflakes, what are you 
When compared with drops of dew ! 



62 WINTER 




WINTER 

F earth had always silent been as 
now, 
V/e should not know how sweet 
the robin's strain, 
Nor feel a lack till songs come back again. 
Or if the white earth and the leafless bough 
Had felt no other covering than the snow, 
We should not sigh and of the chill com- 
plain, 
Nor watch for the sweet springtime and the 
rain 
To break the barren, wintry wait below. 
If we had always known long nights like these, 

We should not be impatient for the morn ; 
Or had the fragrant rose less power to please, 
We never should have found and felt its 
thorn. 
Ah, if the soul had known no other sphere, 
It would not mourn and be so restless here. 



IN THE MORNING 63 



IN THE MORNING 

HERE were dainty footprints here 
and there, 
Dropped in the snow last night ; 
Were the fairies won from their 
mystic home 
By the charm of the pale moonlight ? 



No step was seen when the grass was green, 

But the soft and yielding snow 
Has taken the print of the fairies' feet, 

And tells where the fairies go. 



There are fairies in feathers and fairies in furs, 

Some leap like earthly things, 
And others walk like a stately bird, 

Whose step has a hint of wings. 



64 IN THE MORNING 

Are they doomed to dwell in the trees by day ? 

Does the moonlight set them free ? 
Do they tell through the creaking oak and pine 

Of the sorrow we cannot see ? 



Or are they the merriest elfin folk 
That ever went forth in the night, 

Wooing and waltzing through woodland ways 
And tracing the meadows white ? 



No step was seen when the grass was green, 
But the kind and yielding snow 

Takes every print of the fairies' feet, 
And tells where the fairies go. 



THE PATIENT SEASONS 65 



THE PATIENT SEASONS 

OW patiently the seasons bide their 
time ! 
No murmur from the bud that 
months ago 
Was ready, were the earth inclined, to blow ; 
The birds are happy in their chosen clime. 

No doubt there are communings 'neath the 
snow, 
And some bright eyes that never close in 

sleep, 
And some quick ears that listen well and 
keep 
Sweet hope alive in little hearts below. 

Then let the winter wear itself away. 

Borne thither on the breast of freighted rills ; 
A dream of spring has touched the constant 
hills. 

And made the valleys patient of delay. 



66 ITALIAN WINTER 



ITALIAN WINTER 

N golden sandals glide the days, 
Up morning beams, down sunset 
rays. 

So soft and fleet one scarcely knows 
That it is winter and the rose 
Is blooming out of time and place. 
The clouds move by with languid grace, 
And gather into radiant lines 
Above the far-off Apennines. 
Across the seas serenely blue, 
Low winds are wafted, falling to 
A whisper ere the night is through. 
And phantom ships glide o'er the bay 
To phantom isles not far away, 
Where fair Calypso and her train. 
With feasts and music still detain 
The hero of the iEgean main ; 
Historic warriors lead the dance 
With stately heroines of romance, 



ITALIAN WINTER 67 

And from the isles of Sirens float, 
O'er Neptune's rough, discordant note, 
Enchanting voices, rising, falling, 
And to the dreamy spirit calling, 
Chiming with restfulness and ease, 
Attuned to tender memories. 



In orange groves the gold is free, 
Here nature knows no poverty ; 
The earth, responsive to the calm, 
Presents the olive branch and palm, 
And fires of summer still burn low 
Upon her broad, green hearth to show 
How fresh the memory of their glow. 
Indulgent Winter spares his frown. 
Bestows his blessing, smiling down 
From snowy heights, on breezy wing, 
He joins the hearts of Fall and Spring. 



68 WITH THE SEASONS 



WITH THE SEASONS 

^^^^M the Spring of the year, when the 
fi^pyKl t^^^^ ^^^ flowing, 

I^^^SI And the young buds swell in the 

soft'ning air — 
If the butterfly's out, there are colors 
showing, 
If the bee is abroad, there are sweets some- 
where ! 

O the June of the year, with the gay bells 
ringing 
From sky to sky where the blue line runs, 
When Love goes over the green earth singing 
And the meadow shines with its own gold 
suns. 

O the Fall of the year, that rounds the 
measure, 
And speeds the birds on a journey bold, 



WITH THE SEASONS 69 

When the earth spreads out all her summer 
treasure — 
The spendthrift earth that should hoard her 
gold. 

O the Snow of the year, with the grim trees 
lifting 
Their tawny arms where the strong winds 
sweep, 
And the white, white billows are steadily 
drifting 
Over the earth that has gone to sleep. 



70 IF LOVE WERE LIFE 



IF LOVE WERE LIFE 

p|F love were life and hearts more 
lender were; 
No growing old or dying would 
there be; 
No eyes from too much weeping fail to see ; 
No more the brow be the interpreter 
Of care beneath, nor soul a prisoner 

Within a cell, but like a breath that's free, 

Would spread itself through all eternity ; 

If love were life and hearts more tender were. 

It is not hard to understand God's plan. 
Nor be submissive when submission's sweet ; 

A flower simply lives to bloom, and man 
Should simply live to Love, or else defeat 

The Master's will, which he has made so clear, 

That love enough would make us angels here. 



AFTER THE PLAY 71 



AFTER THE PLAY 

HAT is the stage when the players 
are gone ? — 
Better the curtain were hastily 
drawn. 
Better the lights were turned low, 
Better the people should go, 
And that life should flow evenly on. 

What can we read when the book has been 
sealed ? — 

If to us once it has all been revealed, 

And in it no longer we've part — 
Let it be buried, dear Heart, 

The earth will more tenderly shield. 



72 MOONRISE 



MOONRISE 

IKE the soft step of one for whom 
we wait, 
Whose smile we feel before she is 
aware, — 
Faint lines of light the moon's first greet- 
ings bear ; 
While she doth seem to linger at night's gate 
As if to chide herself for being late ; 

Then bursts upon us with a conscious air, 
And all the earth stands still to welcome 
there 
Our Lady of the Skies in silver state ! 



LIFE 71 



LIFE 

O see, to hear, to feel, to love, to 

pray,— 

Aye, to have known all these, and 

1 — I — 

then to die. 

And to remember still the days gone by. 
I wonder that the unused, unblest clay 
Does not rise up in one bold mass and say : 

** Breathe on this dust the breath of life, 
and I 

A million, million years content will lie — 
To feel the sunshine but for one brief day ! 
To hear of all the music one sweet strain ! 

To feel the thrill of being in me bound ! 
Then let the clouds and night come back 
again; — 

I've seen the sunshine and I've heard the 
sound 
Of music, and no death or grave's so deep 
But I shall feel the sunshine in my sleep ! " 



74 TO LOVE 



TO LOVE 

|i; wiw;i|^ love is to have touched a spring 
{yr^S^I That doth respond in everything ; 
S^^^ii And all the secrets are revealed 

Of brook and bird and wood and 
field— 
The brook that runs a merry race, 
The bird that fills a lonely space 
With song, the tender autumn wood 
Soft swelling with a golden flood, 
The field to which a deep content 
The glory of the harvest lent — 
As if my own glad heart to prove, 
All sing of love, all sing of love. 

To love is to know all that's pure 

And good and fair, maybe endure 

Some sorrow that makes love more sure ; 

Nor evil nor temptation see. 

Nor weakness — save through sympathy ; — 



TO LOVE 75 



To be so glad for being here 
It maketh all life's mystery clear ; — 
And hearts were made, it seemeth plain, 
For something more than suffer pain, — 
For something sweeter than the rose. 
Or anything that loves not, knows. 



id SLUMBER SONG 



SLUMBER SONG 

O, pretty lady-bird, this way to 
slumber land ! 
Here is a carrriage all lined with 
soft down ; 
Just close you eyes a bit, then by some fairy's 
wand 
You will be wafted afar from the town — 

Unto a country where only the dreamers go. 
Where all the streets are just poppy-lined 
lanes ; 
There you will meet the strange folk little 
sleepers know — 
Black bats and witches that walk with 
queer canes. 

You are a princess and they must your bid- 
ding do, 
Bowing and bending on wings and on 
knees — 



SLUMBER SONG 'J^ 



When you're awake you might look the whole 
city through 
And find no one like them so anxious to 
please. 

There, little princess-girl, here is the turn 
and the 
Night is so short you must hasten away ; 
Tell what you've seen when at morn you 
come back to me 
And just see how funny 'twill all look by 
day. 



MY MOTHER 



MY MOTHER 

^OME one I love comes back to me 
With every gentle face I see ; — 




Beneath each wave of soft gray- 
hair 
I see my own dear mother there ; 
With every kindly glance and word 
It seems as if I must have heard 
Her speak, and felt her tender gaze 
With all the love of olden days. 
Then I am moved to take her hand, 
And tell her now I understand 
How tired she grew beneath the strain 
Of feeling every loved one's pain ; 
No further burdens could she bear, 
The promise of that land more fair 

Alone could tempt her from her child ; 
And now if I could keep her here, 
No sacrifice would be too dear, 

No tempered winds for her too mild ; 



MY MOTHER 79 



Then I would smooth and kiss her face 
And by her side take my old place 

And sob my years and cares away. 
I think if I could feel her touch 
Once more, it would not matter much 

How sunny or how dark the day ; 
The tears I have so long repressed 
Would lose their ache upon her breast. 

I love each mother that I see 
That brings my own so near to me ; 
For though I never more may frame 
Upon my lips that hallowed name 
To any who will draw me near 

And answer me with warm caress, — 
As long as there are mothers here, 

No child can be quite motherless. 




8o THE SUSQUEHANNA 



THE SUSQUEHANNA 

EMMED in by hills whose forests 
hold the dew ; 
Lake-born, and fed by many mur- 
murous streams 
That have the fairest fancies for their 
themes, 
That tell the river how they rippled through 
The rocky highlands where the mosses grew, — 
How ferns and lichens, peeping through the 

seams 
Of rocks, swayed soft as in mid-summer 
dreams, 
And birds trilled every joyous air they knew. 

The river knows the secrets of the hills. 

And learns from happy fields as it goes by 
The sweetness of contentment ; and it fills 

The little valley with another sky 
Where birds fly back and forth — till evening 
wills 
To set some stars there and the moonbeams 
shy. 



I LOVE YOU 



8l 



I LOVE YOU 




LOVE you — not because you love 

me well, 
Nor for the sweet words that your 
lips may tell, 
Nor for the love-light shining in your eyes. 
Nor for the strength that in your manhood lies, 
Not even for the heart that is so true — 
I love you just because, dear, you are you ! 



82 IMMORTAL 




IMMORTAL 

URNS' "crimson- tipped flower' 
grows 
With Tennyson's forget-me-nots, 
As fair as long ago they rose 
In their memorial spots. 

The "violet by a mossy stone" 

Blooms there, untended, every year ; 

In twilight skies still shines the one 
Fair star to Wordsworth dear. 

The " primrose by the river's brim " 
Has seen its golden image oft ; 

And Shelley's skylark sings for him 
As still it soars aloft. 

'* Full many a flower " has blushed unseen 
Since Gray sang solemnly and low ; 
With wild thyme many a bank is green. 
Though Shakespeare may not know. 



IMMORTAL 83 



No painter's hand the lily shows — 
It needs no kinder touch than rain 

To make it " blossom as the rose '* 
That grew on Sharon's plain. 

Still sound the harp and twinkling feet 
In Tara's many-storied rooms, 

And for remembrance' sake the sweet 
Rosemary always blooms. 

Soft falls the noise of hidden brooks, 
And still is faithful the "one moon," 

And every rose is shut and looks 
"A bud again " in June. 



84 IN THE HOME COUNTRY 




IN THE HOME COUNTRY 

OW I would see my girlhood haunts 
by night, 
Although I miss the beauty of the 
hills, 

The silver of the river, and the trills 
Of birds among the trees and meadows 
bright. 

Up the familiar street I go once more, 
And in the starlight see no changes there ; 
The same old friends for whom I used to 
care 

If I should knock would greet me at the door. 

A shining welcome through each window 
streams ; 
No more a stranger in my own home land, 
But one with them. Ah, now I understand, 
I have just wakened from some strange, sad 
dreams. 



IN THE HOME COUNTRY 85 

And home again. How sweet it is ! She 
knew 
My footsteps from afar. A sudden fear 
Now chills my heart lest she should not be 
here — 
I dare not knock for fear those dreams are 
true. 



86 STARS IN THE WELL 



STARS IN THE WELL 

!Y memory-clock I turn a little 
back ; 
The hands I'll move somewhere 
to morning-time ; 
A little maid, in dainty hood and sack, 
Comes forth in answer to its silver chime. 

She pauses in the doorway half a thought, 
Then dances down the steps out toward the 
well ; 

A pause again — a wonder if she ought 

To lift the lid from where the fairies dwell ? 

It is so dark and deep down there, it would 
Be nice if they might run outside and 
play— 

And she would be quite generous and good 
And let the little fairies have their way ; 



STARS IN THE WELL Sy 

And had not brother said that they were there? 

And ought he not to know ? Then she 
forgot 
That mamma told her she must have a care, 

And never go alone too near that spot. 

But there the boards lay loose invitingly, 
As if they really wanted to be raised ; 

And when they saw a friend had set them free, 
Oh, would not then the fairies be amazed ! 

Her little hands the boards quick turn aside, 
Her little face peers in to break the spell. 

She sees no prisoned fairies forward glide. 
She sees the siars a-shining in the well ! 

The well is dry ; the little maid grown up ; 

The stars long since gone back into the sky ; 
The fairies come no more with her to sup. 

The acorns on the ground unheeded lie ; 

But I am sure she wishes oft again 

That she might all these later dreams dispel, 

And look for fairies, and be glad as when 
She saw the stars a-shining in the well. 



PROMISES 




PROMISES 

SHUDDER at a promise I have 
made, 
Which I know now I never can 
fulfill, 
Because another promise haunts me still ; 
Though he to whom 'twas given has been laid 
Where I but rarely visit, half afraid 

That I might still be moved by his mute 

will. 
Old promises are easy kept until 
A living new one doth our hearts persuade. 

Why, then, through all the glamor of the new, 
Come back this wistful longing and regret ? 

Why, when so sweet this later love — the true, 
The tried and lost are hardest to forget ? 

O God, forgive, my restless heart subdue ! 
Somewhere he lives and loves and waiteth 
yet. 



A LOVE SONG 89 



A LOVE SONG 

F you have seen the darkness 
Unclose its lashes deep, 
That heaven's blue eyes might 
open 
Afresh from evening's sleep ; 
If you have seen at twilight 

One single little star 
Come softly through the azure 
And shine for you afar, 



Then you have seen the curtains 

That shade my lady's eyes. 
And keep the blue from losing 

That look of glad surprise 
Which came to them with loving ; 

And you can surely see 
That she came down from heaven 

And shines alone for me. 



90 A LOVE SONG 



The flowers bloom around her, 

The birds come at her call, 
Yet she's the sweetest blossom 

And singer of them all. 
If I be worthy of her 

I know not, but I feel 
Between me and all evil 

Her gentle spirit steal. 



And I half fear some morning 

That I shall look for her. 
And only find the dewdrops 

Where once her white feet were ; 
And one pale, perfect lily 

Where once was her sweet face, 
And a white stone which sorrow 

Has set to mark the place. 



THREE MINISTERING ANGELS 9I 



THREE MINISTERING ANGELS 

iHREE ministering angels went 
To a sad soul with sympathy ; 
One mortal fool, with good intent, 
Undid the work of all the three. 



92 BEAUTY 



BEAUTY 

HE maketh for herself a paradise, 
A paradise in which she dwells 
alone, 

For every common thing is alien in 
Her land. Her's is a wild, uncultured state. 
But needs no hand to train it. 

Stay the brook, — 
It stops its song and dark and sullen grows. 
Lower the forest and bare rocks come forth 
And streamlets seek seclusion underground. 
Break thee a flower, and it gives but one 
Low, perfumed sigh, and dies. Cage thee a 

bird, 
And canst thou then be sure thou hast the 
song ? 

The only law that beauty knows, obeys, 
Is that of freedom for her own sweet will. 
A cloud is seen upon her skies, and straight 
The wind doth rise to scatter it afar. 



BEAUTY 93 



The bough is bent, but beauty hastes to clothe 
It with the lines of grace she knows so well. 
She looks for favor, but in her own eyes ; 
Yet shapes herself to every season's mood ; 
For she is one with Winter, Summer, Spring, 
And Autumn's smiles she doth most revel in. 
Those of our own who are akin to her, 
Are little children — sometimes those who still 
Keep childish spirits under their white hair. 

But all who would know beauty at her best 
Should wait till even-fall, and look not down 
Upon the flowers from which the color's flown, 
But up where beauty takes at eve her flight, 
Up where the silver, half-ringed moon glides 

on 
Securely in her path amid the blue, 
Up where the planets still reflect the day 
We saw go down behind the western hills. 



94 THE COUNTRY OF FARAWAY 



THE COUNTRY OF FARAWAY 

HE beautiful country of Faraway ! 
O, sail I eastward or sail I west, 
My good ship rides in no peace- 
ful bay, 
And anchors not by the Isle of Rest ! 

The beautiful country of Faraway ! 

Tell me, stranger, from whence you hail ! — 
Have you seen that land where my loved ones 
stay, 

And can I reach it by foot or sail ? 

The beautiful country of Faraway ! 

O this the answer my question brings : 
" Lower your sails and wait and pray, 

That country is only reached with wings ! " 



VENICE 95 



VENICE 

OFTLY falls the rhythmic beat 
Of the water's unseen feet, 

i Pausing at each palace door, 
Rocking little boats before, 
Going out to meet the tide, 
With the greetings of the Bride. 

Song- wings at each casement beat ; 

Throbs the air with languorous heat ; 

Veronese and Titian tints 

Where the sunlight dips and glints ; 

Idle drifts and moorings made 

In the green, caressing shade. 

Down blue lanes by arches spanned, 
Slim, black floats their burdens land 
At some roving Doge's door, 
Then pass on with listless oar. 
Suddenly a shining prow 
Glides across another bow — 



96 VENICE 



With a gay salute they meet, 
Voyaging on the shimmering street J 

From its footing in the walls 
Up the eager ivy crawls 
To some balcony or stair, 
Hanging gardens in the air. 
Where two grains of sand are met, 
There some tender shrub has set 
Up a temple green to song 
That will not be vacant long. 

Tn San Marco's sunny square 
Pilgrim doves ask alms and care, 
And the lion, crouched and dumb, 
Looking toward Byzantium, 
Scans the Adriatic's blue 
For the ships long overdue. 

Loath the sun his anchor weighs, 
Sailing westward through the haze. 
Leaving to the moon to touch. 
With her silver brushes, such 
Mystic outlines as she will. 
Making beauty fairer still. 



ON THE HEIGHTS 97 



ON THE HEIGHTS 

I^^^^^ACH heart has heights that few can 

t^Sl^iiil Made solitary thus for love's sweet 
sake ; 
To reach the summit of her heart I take 
My alpenstock of smiles and gentle speech. 

I've crossed the vale where only friendships 
dwell. 
(How good she is !) Above me, white and 

fair, 
I see the edelweiss of trust bloom there, 
And flowers of which no traveler may tell. 

A sudden avalanche of joy sweeps past, 
And I am not destroyed ! Then may not I, 
By long persistence mounting toward the 
sky. 

Look from the heaven of her heart at last ? 



INFLUENCE 



INFLUENCE 

NOTE so low that none but Echo 
heard. 
Was sung into the world one 
summer day ; 
The singer died, — the song went on its way 
At first as faint as call of sleeping bird, 
While Echo carried it in rhythmic word 
From rock to rock, until it went astray 
Into the outer space where Freedom lay, 
And all the world then listened and was stirred. 

And none could name or trace its humble birth, 
Not even Echo, who had simply known 

It as a broken note of little worth ; — 

So many voices now had swelled the tone. 

It floated far beyond the bounds of earth 
And blended v/ith the songs around the 
Throne. 



OF LOVE 99 




OF LOVE 

F you should miss some color rare, 
Some light from out the sky, 
My joyous soul could tell you 
where 
These hidden treasures lie. 



Love gathered all the brightness here 
And placed it in my heart, 

I only wonder how the year 
Could spare so large a part. 

So glad an I — no clouds I see, 

Only the light beyond, 
And know not if there darkness be 

For hearts less blest and fond. 

Ah, love ! the tender magic word 
Has set my heart in tune, 

Content and happy as a bird 
On her four eggs in June. 



MORNING 



MORNING 

H FEEL that every dewdrop has a 
tone 
And sings for ears more sensitive 
than mine, 
While all the flowers their modest heads 
incline, 
And list in fragrant reverence. Alone 
And mute I stand before the Morning's throne. 
The birds have speech, the breeze, the 

rhythmic pine, 
Each brings its offering glad unto the shrine 
Of the fair one, and only I bring none. 

Yet, as I feel her breath upon my cheek. 
And know there are sweet sounds I cannot 
hear, 
And languages I know not how to speak, 

Around me in the dreamy atmosphere, — 
For what I've not I neither ask nor seek, 
And what I have seems every morn more 
dear. 



ONLY THE FEW lOl 



ONLY THE FEW 

llgsK^I HERE are many birds in the nests 

^yjS^j:! Therearemany buds that a promise 

give, 
There are many songs that the poets sing, 
But only the few will live. 

There are many children to laugh and play, 
And many battles for youth to fight. 

And many brave on through the heat of day, 
But only the few till night. 

There are many hearts in this world to beat, 
And many eyes to see wondrous things, 

And many ears to hear music sweet, 
But only the few have wings. 



I02 



MY LITTLE LADY 



MY LITTLE LADY 




KNOW a little lady, 

So young and sweet and shy, 
She blushes like the roses, 

When a sunbeam dances by. 



She trembles at a rude wind, 
Is full of fancied fears ; 

It seems as if I'd happened 
On a violet in tears. 

But a smile her tears will banish. 
And her skies be blue again, 

For she knows no more of sorrow 
Than a violet of pain. 



She is so pure and gentle, 

Could I reach the spring on high, 
I would drink to her in starshine 

From the dipper in the sky. 



BELLS RING NEVER TWICE THE SAME I03 



BELLS RING NEVER TWICE THE 
SAME 

O not think that yonder bell, 

Hung responsive in the tower, 
Minds not whether funeral knell 
Or a happy marriage hour 
It shall next with peal proclaim — 
Bells ring never twice the same. 

Never twice the same bud blows, 
Though the plant may blossom oft ; 

When the wind dies no one knows 
If it sinks or soars aloft — 

Or if yet the new breeze may 

Be the breath of yesterday. 

Yonder grow the apple trees, 

One blooms pink and one blooms white; 
There in May the honey-bees 

Hum a chorus of delight ; 



I04 BELLS RING NEVER TWICE THE SAME 

But no bees one sees or hears 
On the blossoms of past years. 

Yet, when youth departs, we dream 

We can find it, and we go 
Searching up and down the stream, 

By the paths we used to know, 
Through the meadow, up the hill — 
Our lost youth evades us still. 

Breezes come to greet each day, 

Bells ring glad and mournful strains, 

Apple trees bloom still in May — 
Only this sad fact remains ; 

Our lost youth, its flowers, its chimes, 

Were the sweets of other times. 



THE MOTHER-POET I05 



THE MOTHER-POET 

Y mother was a poet ! 

And, though she left no song 
To ripple down the centuries 
And cheer the world along, 

Her soul was full of music ; 

Her thought was set to rhyme 
Of little feet, that kept her heart 

A-singing all the time. 

Her life was one long measure 
Of kind, unselfish deeds ; 

(So common is the doing 

One scarcely knows or heeds.) 

She gave herself so freely, 
Thought had she for us all. 

And time to note each flower, 
And the first bluebird's call. 



IC6 THE ISIOTHER-POET 

A singer who sings truly 
Must often sing of pain, 

Yet hope rose through her sorrow 
As rainbows through the rain. 

O what a wondrous poem 
Is mother duty done ! 

My mother was a poet ! — 
I'm sure that yours was one. 



HUMAN NATURE I07 



HUMAN NATURE 

F life were not so sad a thing, 

Who, then, would think of be- 
ing merry! 
If God's will would bear altering, 
His plans we should not try to vary ! — 
Were we once free from pain and care, 
We straight would seek some cross to bear ! 

If upon love a seal were set, 

How many seals would then be broken ! 
If gentle speech were hard to get, 

How many kind words would be spoken ! — 
If Heaven were once denied us all, 
How we should then to Heaven call ! 



MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR 



MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR 

^^jY little neighbor's table's set, 

i^^^-j And slyly he comes down the 

His feet firm in each tiny fret 
The bark has fashioned cunningly. 

He pauses on a favorite knot ; 

Beneath the oak his feast is spread, 
He asks no friend to share his lot, 

Or dine with him on acorn bread. 

He keeps his whiskers trim and neat. 
His tail with care he brushes through ; 

He runs about on all four feet — 
When dining he sits up on two. 

He has the latest stripe in furs, 

And wears them all the year around ; 

He does not mind the prick of burs 
When there are chestnuts to be found. 



MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR I09 



I watch his home and guard his store, 

A cozy hollow in a tree ; 
He often sits within his door 

And chatters wondrous things to me. 



ON THE MOUNTAIN 




ON THE MOUNTAIN 

|LL else lies far beneath me, or 
above, 
And I, between two worlds, un- 
certain stand ; 
With eyes uplifted to a vision grand, 
Yet without power to soar or upward move. 
The steps to heaven are builded of our love, 
And mine, alas, so timid on the land, 
Could never find the way without His hand. 
Naught have I in my heart by which to prove 
My right to something I've not found below — 
Except this constant, strong desire to rise ; 
It seems so strange the higher up we go — 
The farther from earth's sinful, suffering 
cries, 
That our unworthiness should haunt us so, 
And wreck us at the gate of Paradise. 



LIdHAHT yjr ov^i^« 




